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He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Spoken like a true nerd. So, you’ll do it?”
Fifty an hour is a lot more than what I get at the pet store. But that demands a lot of time alone with a guy I don’t know. I bite my lip, thinking through my options.
“Well—”
“Seventy-five,” he says, outbidding himself.
My eyes widen and my jaw falls.
“A hundred, then. Look, I really need to pass this class. And you’re the best.”
“Fine,” I spit out, before he offers more money than I’m comfortable with. “But I’m working after class a couple of days a week and on Saturdays.”
He nods. “I have rowing. We can sync schedules, find some time.”
“Let’s meet at the library,” I suggest, still nervous.
He nods. “Sounds good. I can come right after practice. I’ll shower first, promise. Let’s exchange numbers.”
I pull out my phone to take his details, when it occurs to me I don’t know his name, yet. Thankfully, it’s on display when I scan his QR code: Ciaran Beaufort.
“How do you say that?” I ask, baffled.
“No one uses Ciaran, don’t worry.”
It sounds like Kieran, despite the much fancier spelling.
“I don’t think I know how to say your surname either,” I confess.
Though he was perfectly accent-free moments ago, when he tells me, “Beaufort,” he sounds as French as a buttery croissant.
“Bow-fort,” I repeat, so unsophisticated compared to him. “You’re French.”
“Half,” he replies. “I grew up there, however.Pourquoi, tu parles francais?”
I shake my head. I wish I could, but I studied the language in high school, and I barely even understood his“You speak French?”
“Well, I can tutor you in that,” he says, with a wink.
“I can’t afford a hundred an hour,” I retort. “And I’ve chosen Spanish as an elective.”
There’s just more practical use for it in my chosen field. Not to mention, it’s far less complicated.
We’re still chatting in the entry hall when a prickling at the back of my neck urges me to glance back. I look over my shoulder and seehim.
Marius Goltz is perfection, his dark hair brushed back, a little messy, his icy glare set on us. Probing.Demanding.
He wants to know our business, as though he has a right to it. As though he deserves to know exactly what we’re talking about.
I shift uncomfortably.
Beaufort notices him and smiles. “Ah, the son of Midas in the flesh.”
I frown. “Sorry?”
He shrugs. “That’s what they call his father. Midas. Every business Eriks Goltz touches turns to, well, gold. Tech, currencies, construction, hotels. He has his hands in all the pies and he dominates every domain. Uninventive, but the nickname evokes efficient imagery anyway.”
That’s the funny thing about Rothford U. It might be an elite university, but it’s an extension of Thorn Falls, a large town or small city. Anyone who’s anyone knows everyone here.
